Plaid and Stripes
by BookWormProud97
Summary: What happens when the stones of Craigh na dun strike again, but this time from the 21st century? Claire, Jamie, and the rest of clan Mackenzie join together to piece together the mystery that comes in the form of a "Patriot", and slowly realize that she may be the key to their victory against the crown.
1. Chapter 1

I came to in the circle of rocks, cool grass against my back and the sun to my face. A chilling breeze blew by as I sat up, seeming to freeze my bones like a gust from the tundra. My head was pounding, from what I was not sure; the last thing I remembered was touching the rock, screams, and then darkness. I stood up, holding my sweater clad arms close, trying to keep the wind from stealing the little body heat I had left. Looking around, I saw the rocks just as they had been before, if not a little less covered in moss and lichen. And yet, as I turned around, examining my surroundings, something felt wrong, oh so wrong, and yet I couldn't pinpoint what it was that was eating at me. With the uncanny feeling that I would find no help among these stones, I began to walk. I vaguely remembered that the sun set in the west, and tried to seek it out to orient myself. Yet with my luck, I realized that it was high noon, the shining orb was straight overhead and I had no clue where it was going, and I certainly wasn't going to wait around by the rocks to see. With that decided I began my little journey, stumbling down the green hills and rocky outcrops. An expanse of green marsh, blue mountains, and a lush forests rose up in front of me, unfamiliar and yet so peaceful. I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath of fresh, unadulterated air; wherever I was, I didn't mind being lost as much as I thought I would.

I would find out in moments that I had spoken much too soon.

Once I had clumsily traversed the rocky hillside beneath the stone circle, I stopped at the edge of the forest, spotted a babbling creek and decided that if I was going to keep walking to find help, I would need to stay hydrated. Slowly I picked my way to the waters edge, taking care to avoid the patches of glistening mud. Once on the flat stones of the water's edge, I got down and dipped my hands into the crystal liquid, slightly jerking at the freezing water, and hurried to gulp down a few sizable mouthfuls. With the last gulp I mopped up my dripping chin with the sleeve of my sweater, scratching my face on a bramble that had snuck its way onto the knit fabric. Knowing that I must move on before dark, I stood up and turned around, straight into a hard yet warm chest clad in red.

This wasn't any red though, it was red decorated with brass buttons, with a trim of white and black and the tassels of a military official. In absolute confusion I jerked back, looking up into the pale, pinched face of a tri-corn wearing man. His face was very plain, smeared with what looked like dirt, on his forehead like he wiped it there in a moment of stress. His eyes were small and piggish, a shade of brown, the exact same as the mud I had so carefully tried to avoid.

"And what may I ask is a-" at this his eyes, dropped to my outfit, which consisted of jeans, brown laced up boots, and a black and white knit sweater, "-interestingly dressed woman doing wandering out on her own?" He finished in a clipped tone, even more apparent with his English accent. My heart soared with the possibility of finding my way home, and yet his nationality and outfit tugged at my attention, warning me that this wasn't what it seemed.

"I got lost-" I pointed towards the hill with the stone circle behind me "-and woke up there, if you could help me find my way home that would be wonderful."

Alarm bells rang in my head as I spoke, noticing that once the first few words had left my lips, the man had seemed to stop listening altogether, his mouth twitched into a frown and his brow pulled down in a most hostile expression.

"How the hell did you get here?! You're a bloody spy! Helping the cause you are!" As he yelled he grasped my arm in a grip of steel and yanked me into the woods.

"What?! I promise I don't know what you're talking about! Please!" I fought back, scratching and clawing, kicking and punching. But with a quick whistle into the trees, another red coat came running out, initially taken aback by the situation until a violent jerk from my captors head ordered him to grasp my other arm and follow along. Try in vain I did to escape, but my strength was no match for the combined efforts of the two men, and I was afraid that if I fought too hard they would knock me out, I wanted to be conscious for this, it was too important to leave to chance. After a short scramble through bushes of thistle and thorns, the soldiers finally came out in to a clearing, filled with three tents and a roaring fire. Four other men sat by the fire, or milled around the camp, but immediately their eyes were drawn to my fighting form, a look of confusion and curiosity decorating their brows.

"Sir, what is-" began one as my original captor handed my arm off to another man, who grasped it an iron grip.

"I seem to have found a traitor and a spy lurking in the woods, and I will see to it that this threat to the crown is taken care of appropriately!"

"Please!" I screamed, "I'm lost! All I want to do is find my way home!" and yet, just like the other man, the minute the words left my mouth, the men's faces closed off to me. One turned to his tent, rummaged around for a bit and came back with a strip of leather that I realized with horror was a whip.

The man with the piggish eyes, came up behind me and grasped my sweater, the sound of grating metal rang through the forest and in a flash my sweater hung around my body, cut in half with a knife, my back now exposed. The cold air tore at my flesh, stinging like needles, at least until the first cut. With a horrified shock, I felt the tip of the man's knife slice neatly down my back, releasing a flood of warmth to course down my skin.

"What's wrong girlie? Can't handle the punishment fit for the crime?" Another slow, agonizing slice. I was about to plead again when I realized that these men would never listen, and if they did it was to get pleasure from my screams and pain. I figured that if they were going to kill me, I certainly wasn't going to give them what they wanted before they did it.

Another slice.

"Thirteen cuts for the colonies missy" pig eyes said with a laugh. On and on this went, he and his cohorts taunting, me hanging on, teeth clenched, sweating with the effort not to scream. Finally he stepped back and I heard the knife slid back into his sheath. My shoulders dropped in relief.

"Ohh no, you're not getting off that easy, traitors will suffer at my hand, its a personal motto of sorts." he said with a chuckle, and then in a second I knew I was a goner. I understood with the first crack of the whip why he had cut me first. A whipping is a horrible endeavor, but a whipping on open wounds is an experience so unbearable that when the first crack came down, I hoped I would die right then and there; struck down by some other worldly force, or simply just die of blood loss... anything to stop the pain. Throughout the next thirteen lashes, I held my tongue, and fought to stay conscious, determined to show these men that I was made of tougher stuff before they killed me.

I never had to though, on number thirteen, there was a call from an owl somewhere in the woods, which instead of being answered by another owl was answered by the battle cries of a band of scraggly warriors, brandishing broadswords and wooden shields. Clad in kilts. I closed my eyes at this sight as everything clicked into place, I was clearly no longer in my own time, I had no clue how or why but this was no longer the 21st century.

With a jerk, my captors dropped my arms to join the fray and I held my tattered sweater around my front, sinking to the ground and succumbing to the waves of pain, made fresh with every gust of wind that hit my back. I held myself tightly, afraid that if I didn't I would simply fall apart into oblivion. In my ears, the sounds of battle raged on around me, when I gained enough strength to lift my head, I looked around and saw that the ground was covered in red, from the coats and blood of my assailants. Standing over them was a group of rag-tag warriors, battle worn, and covered in dirt and grim. I blinked calmly as one of them came over and squatted down in front of me,

"Dinna worry lassie, we are here to take ye to a safe place, no more English, I promise ye." He held out a hand at this and I nodded and reached to grasp it. The torn bits of my back pulled painfully, and yet I was so far gone with the sensation that I was in a state of tranquility and calmness. What was the worst that could happen to me now?

With help from the strange Scottish warriors, I was loaded up behind a kind, older man on his horse. Told to hold on and that a safe haven was but a few miles away. Together, the group and I trudged through the night, with me fading in and out of consciousness and them conversing in low streams of Gaelic, so quietly that at times I couldn't distinguish it from the sounds of the forest around us.

Finally, when I felt as if I could take no more of the jarring movements of the horse, my partner announced that were had arrived at the castle, Castle Leoch, he called it. I felt the horses slow down as we entered the courtyard, but by then my eyes has rolled back into my head.

"She's goin' down! Someone ge' her!" I heard my rider yell, I wondered lazily who he was talking about before I felt the horse turning beneath me and realized that I was the one going over. With a jarring thud, I landed in the hard, warm arms of someone, a man. His hands grasped me and slid over the bloody expanse that was my back. I gasped in pain, and struggled to stay conscious through the pain,

"What the-" said the voice holding me, his voice was like the group that rescued me, deep and filled with a Scottish lilt. Gingerly he hoisted me up, I could hear the men around me yelling advice and recounting the story,

"Take her ta Mistress Beauchamp, Jamie!"

"I swear tha' lassie is strong, dinna cry out once!"

I was carried over a shoulder, to prevent any contact to the mangled flesh that was my back. Each step reverted through me painfully, and my head felt light, like it would float away at any second. Finally, the movement stopped and I was set down on a cold, stone slab, a table I presumed. My head lolled forward and two hands braced themselves on my shoulders to hold me up. All around me was the buzz of conversation, alive with excitement and news. Over the din of Scottish brogue, was the commanding tone of an English woman,

"Alright, alright, Rupurt and Angus hold onto the girl's arms, tightly please, this will either wake her up or knock her out." Immediately two sets of arms grasped me tightly and the hands on my shoulders tightened. And then the pain somehow doubled, tripled, quadrupled into endless waves of pure agony.

This time I screamed, my eyes shot open and I arched my back, whatever that woman had just poured down my back felt like fire, sizzling my skin straight off the bone. I was awake now.

"Mistress Beauchamp!" Exclaimed a voice.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Unless you wanted her wound to fester, that was necessary!"

I looked around in fear, the woman's term did not at all fit with this time period, but then another wave of pain came as the woman doused me again in alcohol. Not caring, I leaned my head forward on the chest in front of me, too wrapped up in the pain to care. Before I knew it I felt the tug of stitches,

"Why are ye stitchin' a flogging?" asked the chest I was leaning against,

"Because it wasn't just a flogging Jamie, this girl was cut before she was flogged." As this Mistress Beauchamp finished her sentence, the room led out an audible gasp and was silent. Then a voice spoke up hesitantly,

"What on Earth di' the lassie do ta' ge' somethin' like tha'?" The room's occupants shuffled nervously as they considered my situation. In order to dispel any accusations of spying, and also because I felt that I owed these people, I used the very last of my strength and raised my head to the crowd surrounding me.

"I'd say it was because of my accent."

The room fell silent, and then at last, Mistress Beauchamp, with a bloody needle still in her hand came into my field of vision and said,

"You're a Patriot." I nodded silently, and a voice in the back let out a nervous laugh,

"Aye, I see now, theres no much tha' a Sassenach hates more than a Scot, cept' a Patriot tha' is."


	2. Chapter 2

After I had revealed my nationality to the dimly lit room full of Scotsman, my head lolled back to lay on the chest from which I had lifted it. Vaguely I heard the broken sentences of my saviors echo around me, but my mind was so far gone with exhaustion by then that I let the words flow over me, making no attempt to hear what they were saying. Instead, I forced myself to time my breathing to the body in front of mine, it gave me a distraction from the dull pain of the pulling needle at my back.

Where was I? That question had been fighting its way to the forefront of my mind all night, and now with nothing else to think about, it had reared its ugly head again. With the common sense that most human beings are born with, I had been able to deduce that I was most likely no longer in the 21st century. From there I began to rack my brains, looking for any indicators of the time period; when did the British stop wearing redcoats? Why didn't I ever pay attention in history class? All very important and seemingly life or death questions at the moment.

There was also another, larger question to be answered. How? How on earth did I change times? One moment I was wandering around the massive stones on the hill and the next I was waking up in who-knows-when.

Being an avid reader, my mind instantly jumped to magic; in the stories, the characters are always swept up in amazing adventures, usually with the help of some otherworldly influence. As a reader of these breathtaking stories I was always jealous of their worlds, who when compared to the boring hum-drum of my world, were exciting and a place where anything was possible. I regret to say, that this was precisely the fact that convinced me to stay as long as I could in this strange world, my father would have laughed at my romantic notions of such a dangerous situation; and yet I think that if I asked these people to take me back to the rocks and from there back home, I would never forgive myself for passing up my own storybook adventure.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't plan on fighting to stay in this hostile time period, I am merely planning on keeping some of my information secret; not mentioning how I came to be in this land, and not asking to me taken home. I will instead let fate do as it will with my life, if it wants to take me along with these natives, then I will follow it wholeheartedly. If it wants to take me home, then I will follow, if not with a heavy heart at a missed opportunity.

Throughout all of this deep, meaningful thinking, I was completely unaware that the tugging at my back had ceased, along with the chatter. Now there were only two voices, the deep Scottish brogue of my headrest and the higher pitched English accent of the strange woman at my back. Their voices mumbled together quietly, trying not to wake me, whom they thought was asleep. I felt a gentle, wet dabbing at my back as they spoke, their whispers twined together, every now and then rising with a laugh or snort. Without meaning to, I yawned, drawing their attention back to me and ending their conversation abruptly. I blushed slightly, under my ratted hair, at the awkward situation of being caught awake.

Slowly, like he was handling a small, hurt bird and not a human, the man in front of me lifted my upper body off of his chest, I wrapped my arms tighter around my middle to keep up my torn sweater, which dangled in damp woolly curtains down my sides, together. I looked up with a stiff neck into deep blue eyes, endless and yet confusingly light. The fire from the torches and candles in the room sparkled off of them, seeming to make them dance in the darkness. His hair was red, just like I imagine a Scottish man's would be, and his face was lightly freckled. He had a strong jawline that could cut steel and a long, straight nose. His neck looked strong too; altogether, I can't say I was disappointed to have been leaning on his chest this whole time.

Of course, because of the proximity between us, his looks, and the fact that I was barely keeping my shirt up, I blushed deeply. Looking down between us, I realized that was also awkward, blushed again and looked behind myself instead, to try and inspect the damage.

The English woman behind me wiped her hands and came to stand in front of me with the man; she was thin, with big hips and wildly dark hair, which was tied back into a hastily done bun. He face was smeared with my blood and her hands tinged pink. I looked into her warm, almost motherly eyes and swallowed nervously.

"Thank you" I whispered. Her eyes crinkled in the corners as a smile stretched across her face,

"Anytime, but let this be the last, shall we?" She bared her teeth in a smile, surprisingly white for a time period that I was pretty sure, had not been introduced to the toothbrush yet. Suspicions aside, I smiled back wearily. The man who had been in front of me had slowly begun to take his leave, with a final head nod to the woman and I, he turned on his heel and disappeared up the stone stairs, his shadow flickering across the wall.

With a creak, the woman sat on the table next to me, her hands knotted in her lap.

"I realize that you've had a trying day" she began, "but I just want you to know that I was in a similar situation once and if you'd like to talk about it sometime, I'm all ears."

Her offer rang through my head, little warning bells going off at the emphasis she put on the phrase, 'similar situation'. "Could she be from the 21st century too?" I thought wildly.

The woman reached for my hand, "You can call me Claire by the way." Her eyes crinkled again, as she said this, then with a surprisingly strong tug, she pulled me up and began to help me to the cot in the corner. Without a word, she pulled off my muddy boots, and helped me on to my stomach, tucking blankets around my waist to prevent my rolling. When she was finally content with my sleeping position, she stood up blew out the nearest candle, the blue smoke swirled up in a haunting whirl as she swept by. I watched silently as Claire gathered up a large book from the table and sat herself down in front of the fire to read. I scanned the small, dungeon like room for her bed, then with a shock I realized that was exactly what I was laying on. This small thought embraced my body like a warm blanket, comforting and secure; I was too exhausted to voice to her my appreciation and thankfulness at her small kindness, and instead settled for a simple example of the trust I felt for her as I teetered on the brink of sleep,

"My name is Laine."


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke to the crackling of a fire, the smokey smell reminded me of family camp-outs and summer bonfires. Of toasting marshmallows and quiet nights, of freezing toes and sweaty backs sticking to the nylon of sleeping bags. The memories of which this simple aroma evoked in my mind, had not yet happened. _I_ had not yet happened, I wasn't even sure if I _would _happen. My situation was so otherworldly, so story-like, that I still was not positive that this was not just one big dream; maybe I had stayed up late reading again and I was subconsciously implanting myself into the story? And yet another side of me pleaded with the universe that I not be dreaming, this whole adventure that I had stumbled upon seemed to be an absolute affirmation of hope. For years, I had read book after book, learning about far off lands and magic, of mysterious creatures and of heroes and heroines battling for reasons that were courageous and selfless. To finish those books and come back to reality was always a horrible endeavor, the real world was nothing like what I had read. Fights were petty and murderous, people were cruel for no reason and others were living miserably with no one to help them. The world had been mapped from corner to corner, the seas had been charted and the mountains and jungles explored. There was no mystery, no wonder, and no magic.

And yet, I had somehow stumbled upon the potential for a great story, maybe not with magic and mythical creatures; but the mystery, suspense and wonder seemed to be guaranteed. So tell me how I could pass up something that could potentially prove to me that the world wasn't as flat as it seemed?

I couldn't.

With a soft groan, I pushed myself up, slowly so as to not stretch and pull at the tightness that was my back. It burned dully, but where it lacked in pain, it made up in the urge to scratch. It felt like a horrible sunburn, after the burn feeling had gone and the horrible itching obsession had taken it's place. My body spasmed as the urges to scratch rocked through my body. My hands clenched each thigh, the nails digging into the soft flesh painfully. I bit my lip as another wave came over me; with jerky movements, I flexed my back, rejoicing when the thin fabric of my nightgown rubbed over my wound.

"No!" came an adamant voice from the corner, making me jump.

"Stop it! You'll only open the injury back up, just hold on one moment, I might have a salve-..." Claire, rummaged through various cabinets on the opposite wall, her skirts swishing around her ankles heavily. She squinted and mumbled to herself, pulling out jars of all sizes and replacing them with little grunts of annoyance.

"Ah! Here we are!" She said with a tap of her foot, "Come on over and have a seat by the fire, you can thaw out from the chilly night while I apply it." She gestured to her chair by the fire as she said this. I got up slowly and held my nightgown around myself, making my way slowly to the chair, my back itching me all the while. The piece of furniture was old looking, a dark wood with even darker stains on the backrest, left there by the amount of hands that had held the wood. The chair was well-worm and smooth, cool to the touch. I settled my self in it backward, my back to Claire and my front facing away from the fire, towards her stone table, which I had sat upon the night before.

"Do you mind if I pull up your shift?"

"My wha-" I realized quickly that she meant the nightgown, "Yes, of course." I said. Claire took the garment and pulled it over my shoulders, so that I was wearing it like a scarf, but with my hands still through the sleeves to preserve modesty. Very carefully she began to spread the salve along the mangled bits of my back, her hands were cold, which provided a heavenly contrast to the itches that burned along my back. My head slipped down to rest on the back of the chair, arms hugging the backrest to my chest. My eyes slipped closed as I relaxed into the English woman's touch.

With a slight feeling of remorse, I realized that I was still wearing my jeans, as dirty and ripped as they were, I was hesitant to get rid of them. Yet I knew that eventually I would have to dress like the others, and most likely explain to them what "jeans" were and why a woman would wear pants. Maybe though, I could get away with washing the trousers and hiding them away, it seemed an awful waste to discard such fabric in the era that I was in. Maybe I could even sell them to a seamstress or taylor for some extra cash. "_Coin"_, I corrected myself. "_cash"_ wasn't a term here.

I let one of my hands fall to my bent knee, to feel the denim rough beneath my fingers. Even though I had decided to stay and stick out the adventure, the feel of the woven fabric beneath my fingers brought a wave of homesickness to the forefront of my mind, weighing down the weightlessness of my thoughts like a cement block.

Luckily before those thoughts pulled me too deep, they were interrupted by footsteps coming down the stone staircase to my left. With a small movement, I turned my head and looked over my shoulder, just in time to see my headrest from last night come down the stairs with a basket in his hand.

The night before, I had noticed his eyes and face, seeing as those things were eye level at the time. Today though, the first thing that struck me was his height, and that's saying something, naturally I'm the tall one at 5'10. He was much taller though, had to have been at least 6'3, maybe even taller. When he walked into the room, he had a commanding effect, with the height, looks, and muscled body; and yet instead of acting the way he looked, he froze on the bottom step when he saw Claire and I. His cheeks flamed slightly with a pink flush as he turned around to face away from us with a whirl, his kilt whipping around his knees with a whoosh.

"I apologize lassies, I dinna ken ye were indecent." his voice was deep and had that pinched tone of someone that was embarrassed. I turned around to look back at Claire, she met my confused stare and with a dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes, which caused me to stifle a nervous laugh into my arm.

"Honestly Jamie, you are not going to ruin the girl's reputation by looking at her wound, turn around and tell me why you have come down."

Jamie turned around slowly, but made sure to keep his eyes averted from my "indecent" back; once he was facing me again I noticed with slight curiosity that his arm was bandaged up in a grimy sling, obviously his height and my pain had distracted me from this little fact.

"Mrs. Fitz tol' me ta' bring down a breakfast for the both of ye'." he said as he carefully placed the basket on the stone slab table in front of me. The basket seemed to be intricately crafted out of tiny little black twigs, my fingers twinged at the thought of the cramps that must have been received from working with a material so small.

From my vantage point, I could not discern what was in the basket, but whatever it was beckoned to my starving stomach like a beacon. Time traveling, being cut and whipped and then stitched up by a stranger, among strangers seemed to have worked up quite an appetite for me. The steam rising up from the nest of woven twigs curled as it dissipated into the air, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread. Jamie must have noticed my wistfully, starving expression because he said,

"Och lassie, if ye' want some food, ye' just got ta' ask!" and then reached into the basket to hand me a smoking hot piece of the most delicious looking bread I had ever seen. Sadly, I could not admire the workmanship because my one-track-mind devoured the morsel in seconds, scorching my tongue and throat in the process. With a smothered cough into my shoulder, I looked over at Jamie and said,

"You might just want to move the basket over towards me." his mouth twitch up in a half grin as he relented, sliding the bread basket in front of me.

Five pieces later as I gulped down a cup of water Claire had fetched for me, I heard Jamie say quietly behind me,

"Sassenach, d'you ye' mind helpin' me outta' this bandage, its chaffin' me awful bad."


End file.
